But you might think it was the blood thing to do to imitate him, and the first thing you knew you'd be dropped on by Wain or somebody. See what I mean?"
Bob was well-intentioned, but tact did not enter greatly into his composition.
"What rot!" said Mike.
"All right. But don't you go doing it. I'm going over to the nets. I see Burgess has shoved you down for them. You'd better be going and changing. Stick on here a bit, though, if you want any more tea. I've got to be off myself."
Mike changed for net-practice in a ferment of spiritual injury. It was maddening to be treated as an infant who had to be looked after. He felt very sore against Bob.
A good innings at the third eleven net, followed by some strenuous fielding in the deep, soothed his ruffled feelings to a large extent; and all might have been well but for the intervention of Firby-Smith.
That youth, all spectacles and front teeth, met Mike at the door of Wain's.
"Ah, I wanted to see you, young man," he said. (Mike disliked being called "young man.") "Come up to my study."
Mike followed him in silence to his study, and preserved his silence till Firby-Smith, having deposited his cricket-bag in a corner of the room and examined himself carefully in a looking-glass that hung over the mantelpiece, spoke again.
"I've been hearing all about you, young man." Mike shuffled.
"You're a frightful character from all accounts." Mike could not think of anything to say that was not rude, so said nothing.
"Your brother has asked me to keep an eye on you."
Mike's soul began to tie itself into knots again. He was just at the age when one is most sensitive to patronage and most resentful of it.
"I promised I would," said the Gazeka, turning round and examining himself in the mirror again.
